FREAK
by Hawa DL
Summary: At the age of nine a boy ran away from his home and was soon taken in and trained in the art of muggle warfare. For a decade the wizarding world was left to flounder in its attempts to fight a Second War against the Dark Lord. Now things are changing. Harry Potter, the mercenary, has returned on one last assignment: to kill Voldemort or die trying. HP/SS. Darkish!Harry. Past abuse.
1. Chapter I

_**FREAK**_

* * *

_by  
__Hawa D.L._

* * *

**Chapter I  
**How 'bout you, slick? Tell me 'bout your mamma, where ya comin' from.**  
**

* * *

"I have no mother. I clawed my way up to the surface of the earth from beneath a bed of lilies, and with my first breath I did not wail but wept quietly tears that were tainted pink. And my eyes glowed for two weeks until I got used to the light above the earth. And my skin burned for two months until I got used to the light above the earth. Fragile though I was, I was strong. For nine years I lived in the light above the earth and was reviled. For nine years I was beaten, but try as they might no hand could leave a mark on my skin. I have no name, but to humans I was known as the freak."

– _The freak at a casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, USA, 1 January__ 2000_

* * *

**Motel 6, New York City, New York, USA, Wednesday, 19 September 2001, 4:00 A.M. EST**

He groaned as he caught sight of what awaited him inside his motel room. _Yet another goddamn package_. He'd hoped to get at least a week's reprieve after the last assignment he'd just wrapped up the day before, especially seeing as it took an entire month to execute. _Damn the bastards_, he thought as he gently picked up the plain package wrapped in brown paper and held it to his ear._No ticking. No beeping. _A little shake._ Hmm, a book perhaps and my smokes_. Another shake. _And a few loose pieces of parchment. It can wait_.

He tossed the package back on the bed and started stripping off his clothes as he made his way to the bathroom and started filling the tub with hot water. Standing before the mirror he threaded his black lacquered fingers through the voluminous strands of his ebony hair, pushing the long bangs out of his face and tying the lot back with a rubber band. Slowly he let his hands trail over his naked skin and he watched as they left shimmering paths in their wake. Eventually all the glamours he wore over his skin faded and the beautiful sight of his scarred flesh was his to take in. _I knew I was feeling randy earlier, but damn, I'm already up just from looking at myself_. He smirked, admiring the curve of his pink rose petal lips and the viper piercings. He tongued the left ring, getting harder as his jade eyes stared at the small wet muscle, red and glistening like blood. His entire body was long and lean, with firm tight muscles, but his eyes focused on the line of black hair he traced on his pale stomach leading to the thick curls nestling his erection. He moaned as he finally began fisting himself slowly with one hand, playing with the foreskin and teasing his balls. The world owed him time for at least one bath and a good wank. Surely it could stop spinning for that long. Although, given his luck something noticeable, an embassy maybe, would probably blow up if he didn't read this latest missive in time. _Damn it_. With a put-upon sigh he went and fetched the package and settled in the tub with it, stroking himself all the while.

Inside the package was a plane one-way ticket to London that left at 8, so he effectively only had an hour to get over to the airport since security was sure to be a bitch given what he did yesterday. In addition to the ticket was a carton of Djarum Blacks, a letter in a blank envelope, a passport, a driver's license, £2,500, and a book titled _An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding World: Everything a Muggleborn Needs to Know 10__th__ Edition_ by Miranda Hadley. He sighed. Just thinking of the utter madness about to ensue had his boner shot to Hell. _So much for that wank_. Before he let his mind ponder the implications of a "wizarding world" (_What the fuck?_), he opened the letter and… his jaw dropped.

_ You were not born a freak. You were born a wizard._

_Your name is truly Harry James Potter. You were born 31 July 1980 to James and Lily Potter, in the midst of the First War against the Dark Lord Voldemort. Your parents were part of a vigilante group called the Order of the Phoenix founded by Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with the purpose of fighting Tom Riddle, a Dark wizard who goes by the name of Voldemort. On the night of 31 October 1981 Voldemort tried to kill you and failed, though not before killing your parents. He disappeared that night for ten years. According to Dumbledore, Voldemort attempted to cast the Killing Curse on you but it rebounded, leaving you with the lightning bolt curse scar on your forehead. Dumbledore and his colleagues Minerva McGonagall and Rubeus Hagrid were the ones who recovered you and placed you in the care of your muggle (that is to say non-magical) relatives, the Dursleys, your aunt Petunia Dursley née Evans being your mother's older sister._

_You are famous in the wizarding world as the first human being to ever survive the killing curse and also as the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. There are whispers among the wizards and witches of Britian of a prophecy that identifies you as the sole Savior of the world. When you ran away from home in 1989 you left the wizarding world defenseless when Voldemort regained a body in 1991 through use of the Philosopher's Stone. For the last ten years the Second War has waged on, and it is now beginning to spread into the muggle world. Your assignment is to kill Volemort once and for all and to finish the Second War before the wizarding world is exposed to muggles._

_You are hereby released into the service of Prime Minister Tony Blair and Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour. Follow procedure only until you meet them and are debriefed. You are fully expected to die by the end of this assignment. However, should you exceed these expectations, as is your habit, you are free to settle in this world or elsewhere should you choose. You will receive your final paycheck upon completion of your assignment, and afterward your monthly pension will of course be deposited into your account._

_Your service has been invaluable, and we wish you the best on this assignment.__  
_

Dazed, he folded the letter and put it back in its envelope before picking up his new passport and driver's license. The pictures were slightly different from each other, but he looked the same in them both. His hair was pulled back to show his face and his piercings and his scar, the one he could never hide no matter how hard he tried. _Magic. Kind of explains a lot actually_. He looked down at the puckered pink lines littering his chest and ran his fingers over them, watching them disappear with a brief shimmer of the air around it. _An actual glamour, like in those fantasy novels. Cool_. Really, he wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at once and just generally freak the fuck out, but he knew he didn't have the time now.

With a carefully blank mind he washed himself and put on a clean set of clothes—plain black jeans worn grey at the knees with a bottle cap studded leather belt; black, steel-toed work boots; white wife beater; green and blue flannel shirt left open. His laptop, iPod, cigarettes, new passport, and the book went into his book bag. The key to his motorcycle in his front pocket, his wallet with his new license in his back pocket, chained to a belt loop. All of his other clothes and old ID went into a garbage bag. He'd buy a new wardrobe in London. After one final sweep of the room he left to go check out.

* * *

**Transatlantic Flight, Wednesday, 12 September 2001, 2:30 P.M. EST, ETA: 7:45 P.M. GMT**

He sighed as he closed _An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding World_ and slipped it back into his book bag. The plane was beginning its decent at the end of the nearly eight-hour flight. He might have been going home to England, but from what he could tell he might as well have been going to China for all that he'd recognize the culture. He pulled his iPod out of the side pocket of the bag and tried to relax for a few minutes before landing. Even without his well-deserved freak-out the whole situation was starting to look less like something out of a book and more like one of the usual dire situations he found himself in. Only this time with a fucking prophecy on top of the whole mess. For the first time in years he was actually a little nervous.

By the time he landed in London he had his fast breathing and his sweaty palms under control. He meandered his way over to the baggage claim and picked up a duffel labeled "Harry Potter" before slipping into the gents'. Once ensconced in a cubicle he did a quick inventory of everything stashed in the bag. In addition to the usual—that being loads of ammo including five hundred darts, four dozen throwing knives, four standard issue hunting knives, a Swiss Army knife, a beautiful set of daishō, a classic Uzi SMG, a long-range Noreen BN36, two Taurus 1911 .45 ACP pistols, four .45 ACP P220 Sigs, two Taurus CIA concealed carry revolvers, and his baby: a Ruger Super Redhawk Double-Action revolver. God, he loved that gun—there were also several basic spellbooks and a note that read, _Talk to Scrimgeour about purchasing a wand_. There was also an extra box of Djarum Blacks and a customized Zippo lighter. It was polished chrome with with a lightning bolt engraved on the front and tiny jade charms dangling from two chains attached to the hinge. And there was yet another note. _Just a present. Figured you could get some use out of it if we don't bury you with it first._ He suppressed a wince. _Ouch. Could at least pretend I'm not walking into a deathtrap, the bastards_. Finally, in a separate pocket on the side of the duffel he found what he was looking for: a key and the address to his new apartment. And another damn note. _Keep it_.

He placed what weapons he could conceal on his person then returned the rest to his bag. The notes were burned, the ashes flushed. With music blasting in one ear he made his way to the rental office to find a motorcycle to his liking. _Yamaha. Eh, good enough for now. Guess I'm going shopping for a new bike too._

The apartment was very near the center of downtown London and was a two-story penthouse with a fabulous view of Big Ben. He suppressed yet another sigh. Whoever he worked for must be sure he was going to die if the accommodations were anything to go by. A sweep through the place revealed an envelope on the pillow in the master bedroom. This time it was an invitation to high tea with the prime minister the next day at 10 Downing Street. He couldn't help laughing. British though he was the thought of actually sitting down to high tea was a bit much. _Oh, well, naught to do about it I suppose_, he thought as he stripped. Tomorrow he'd eat and shop before meeting with Blair and Scrimgeour for the debriefing. Now though, the freak would sleep.

* * *

**10 Downing Street, London, England, UK, Thursday, 13 September 2001, 6:00 P.M. GMT**

He straightened his jacket as he approached the black door, having forwent the tie for this evening. He'd already removed his lip rings and glamoured the piercings. He'd even pulled his hair back in a plait that ended just below his shoulder blades and removed his nail polish. As far as he was concerned that was a lot of unnecessary effort to convince these people of his respectability. Unnecessary because they already knew he was a mercenary and therefore had none. But of course they were going to dance around this fact. Hence why he bothered wearing the light grey suit with navy blue satin lining, crisp white button-down, and shiny new dark brown dress shoes. He did leave a small diamond stud in his upper right ear though. Just a reminder.

Once inside he was quickly shown to the parlor where Blair and Scrimgeour were waiting, the latter of whom did a double take once he walked in, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

"_Potter_?" Scrimgeour asked in disbelief, staring at the lightning bolt scar exposed on his forehead. Scrimgeour was dressed in a set of red robes and what were probably dragonhide boots. His short golden beard did a poor job of covering the scars littering his pockmarked face.

The freak grinned. It was nasty and malicious. "In the flesh." Then to Blair, who was busy staring dumbly at the whole exchange, "I take it they didn't tell you who they were sending?"

Minister Blair was wearing a fashionable dark business suit with a teal patterned tie. Blair shook his head, probably to rouse himself rather than in answer to the question. "No, they just said they had a man perfect for the job."

"Well, if what I hear about a prophecy is true then that's certainly me," he responded with a chuckle.

"Where the hell have you been, Potter?" Scrimgeour was practically red with indignation by this point.

The freak shrugged. "Can't say." And to Blair he held out his hand. "Harry Potter, mercenary. It's nice to meet you, Minister."

Blair quickly shook his hand. "Likewise."

Scrimgeour looked like a Smurf from holding his breath and counting to ten.

The freak gestured to the nearby chairs. "Shall we sit and discuss business, gentlemen?"

Blair, "Yes, yes, of course, please make yourself comfortable."

Scrimgeour took his seat without a word.

They were silent as they waited for the meal to be brought in and then silent as it began. The freak used the time to take in his surroundings, but really as far as parlours go this was about as plain as it got: hardwood floors with earthy rugs, warm rust-colored walls with scenic paintings, bookshelves and a couple desks lining the walls, a fireplace. _Bleh_.

By the time Scrimgeour was on his third cuppa he remembered how to go from shouting mode to speaking. "So, Mr. Potter. What have you been doing all these years?"

He gave a small smile and was delighted to see both men shiver. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that either. Part of the job description, you see."

Blair just nodded, and Scrimgeour appeared to acquiesce, so he continued.

"There are several things that I need to know and that need to happen before I can help you in this fight against Voldemort." Without pause, he noted the way Scrimgeour flinched at the name, remembering that Voldemort was referred to as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his book for muggleborns. "To start, I'll need a basic rundown of both wars and then a more thorough breakdown of the second. I'll also need to know much more about this Order of the Phoenix, but first and foremost I'm going to need a wand and a tutor."

And then there was a silence so profound he could hear the heartbeats of the two men.

Blair recovered first. "You mean to say you don't know magic." Interesting that it was a statement and not a question. He decided then and there that he rather liked Tony Blair.

With that same smile as before he answered anyway. "Not a lick."

"But," Scrimgeour began, "why would you even be sent here if you don't know magic?"

He fought not to roll his eyes. "Prophecy, dear sirs. Besides, there's some magic that I've known how to do subconsciously for years, particularly basic glamours and healing charms, but I've never known there was an actual wizarding world until about..." he checked his watch, "thirty-eight hours ago."

And the silence was back.

This time it was Scrimgeour who broke it. "Would either of you mind if I fetched Albus Dumbledore? I do believe he'll be of the most help here."

Blair just nodded acquiescence while the freak smiled again. "Please do."

Scrimgeour made his way over to the blazing fireplace, grabbed a pinch of dust (_Floo powder, if I do recall correctly._) from a container on the mantle, tossed it in with a shout of "Hogwarts, Headmaster's Office!" and promptly stuck his head in the flames. Minister Blair and the freak watched and sipped their tea in silence as they listened to the conversation between the two men take place. A few moments later and Scrimgeour was once again reclaiming his seat.

"He will be joining us shortly," said the Minister of Magic. "He would like to gather some things to share with you, Mr. Potter."

The freak nodded, and Blair excused himself from the table to speak to someone about having another place set for yet another guest. After the maid left, Scrimgeour cast a short-term stasis charm on the food so it would keep warm and fresh until Dumbledore arrived and then they all settled in to wait.

"So," began Scrimgeour, breaking the silence as he turned to face the freak, "why did you run away from home all those years ago?" Blair looked to him as well, evidently interested in what his answer would be.

He frowned. "Is this information pertinent to the topic at hand, sirs?"

They both frowned, and when Scrimgeour spoke his voice was quiet, thoughtful. "No. No, it is not."

His only response was a hum and to return to his tea. He hated how obvious his past was to strangers. It was like he had ABUSE VICTIM tattooed on his forehead or something. No matter. They would never know the truth behind it all, the depths to which he'd been broken as a child, stilted.

The awkward moment was broken when the fireplace flared and a tall man stepped through the Floo shortly followed by another. The first was very old and garbed in a riot of color, his robes and long pointed hat made up with stripes of fuchsia and marigold. He had long white hair that reached past his knees, from both on top of his head and his face, though the mustache was trimmed short to leave his mouth clear. His eyes were a crystal blue and they twinkled behind his wire-frame half-moon spectacles. He was smiling and humming jollily as he brushed ash from his shoulders.

The second, however, was shorter and clad all in black. Even his eyes and hair were black, the latter greasy and lank, hanging in limp waves to brush his shoulders. These were narrow and led down to even narrower hips. Though not particularly tall, everything about him was long and skinny, especially his hands and his face, which would actually be rather striking and comely were it not for the ugly scowl he wore. It made what would have been an otherwise artfully crafted nose seem too big for his face since his lips were virtually nonexistent and his eyebrows were fine, leaving his dark eyes, deceivingly wide, the only things to draw attention away from it. It didn't help his appearance to the freak that he was the main focus of his fiery glare either.

The older man stepped forward and offered introductions. "Greetings, Minister Blair, Mr. Potter. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This is my colleague, Severus Snape, Potions Master."

Snape merely gave a staccato hum of acknowledgment, almost a grunt, in lieu of actually speaking.

Blair rose as they came over and shook their hands. "It is a pleasure to meet you both. If you will excuse me I shall have another place set up in a moment. I'm afraid we were only expecting one more."

But Dumbledore just waved him off. "Let me, my boy." And with a wave of his wand another set of dinnerware appeared, identical to the others, in addition to a matching chair at the head of the table where he sat, leaving the space prepared next to the freak for Snape.

"Ah, yes, I suppose that will do," Blair said as he too took his seat, shooting Scrimgeour a glance as if to ask why he hadn't done that the first time.

Scrimgeour appeared to ignore this.

"Now tell me," asked Dumbledore, "what seems to be the issue?"

The freak watched the two ministers glance at each other before Blair answered the Headmaster. "Well, as the war is becoming worse and muggle casualties were increasing I decided it was time to outsource. There are several mercenary groups that we are aware of and I was going to attempt to get into contact with some of them and see if any could help fix this situation. However, before I could one of them contacted me instead, said they had just the man I was looking for to help end this war, that he'd meet Mr. Scrimgeour and I here at six. Lo and behold, it was Mr. Potter here who walked through the door."

And here Scrimgeour continued. "He says he needs a thorough debriefing, a wand, and a tutor, obviously. I figured that you would be the best to go through for all three."

Dumbledore nodded and turned to the freak. "You know nothing of magic?"

A shake of the head. "Not much. I was supplied several books for this assignment, and I've performed basic glamours and healing charms most of my life, subconsciously at first, purposefully as I got older. Other than that and my readings, nothing."

Another nod. "What books have you been given?"

"An Idiot's Guide to the Wizarding world and ten spell books of ascending difficulty level. I've read them all, though the spell books weren't much use without a wand. It gave me a basic idea of what we're capable of though."

Nodding. "Good, good. Now for the debriefing."

And so the talk of war began, and Severus Snape's significance became known as he revealed himself to be a spy with a secure position in Voldemort's Inner Circle of Death Eaters. Dumbledore and Snape did most of the talking while the others simply nodded along, the freak asking questions from time to time and Scrimgeour throwing in a comment or two of his own. It took nearly an hour to hash out the important events of the First War, but the freak noticed something a little out of place about how it all ended.

"So Voldemort went after the Potters once he learned of this prophecy, correct?"

Dumbledore nodded. There was a lot of that going on in this room. It's surprising no one's head had fallen off by this point, really. "Yes, that is correct."

"Well, how did he come to know of this prophecy in the first place, if it was made in private as you said earlier?"

Dumbledore's congenial smile didn't waver, however, the freak noticed the way his eyes flicked ever so quickly to the man at his side.

He graced Snape with his small cold smile, and was gratified to watch the man stiffen ever so slightly in his seat. "So it was you who gave Voldemort the prophecy, hm? Why not tell it all? Because surely he wouldn't've gone after them himself if he'd known he would mark the child first."

He could practically hear Snape grind his teeth. "Fortunately," came the clipped response, "I only knew a portion of the prophecy at the time."

Dumbledore cut in again. "And thus you and your parents were hunted."

"But surely you hid them?"

An odd look passed between the surrounding men, but the freak let it go for the time being.

Dumbledore again. "Yes, but their hideout was betrayed by one of your parents' closest friends. Everyone originally believed the culprit to be your godfather, Sirius Black, and he was sent to Azkaban. However, we have found out that the criminal was actually Peter Pettigrew, another of your parents' school friends. Try as I might to have him released, poor Sirius died in Azkaban," the freak noted Snape's quiet snort at the phrase "poor Sirius," "and Pettigrew is still among the Death Eater ranks."

The freak nodded and was just about to move the conversation onto the Second War when Snape spoke. His voice was quiet yet piercing and quite enjoyable to listen to, or at least so thought the freak. "You speak of them in third person, as if you are not one of the Potters yourself."

The question actually managed to make him pause for a moment, and he saw the other three men look askance at him as well. _Did I do that? Well, damn, that was stupid of me_. The freak just shrugged. "I guess I still don't feel like I'm talking about myself."

"You mean you don't feel like a Potter when you've been one all your life?"

He smirked. "A bit presumptuous of you to state I've been a Potter all my life, wouldn't you say?"

A scowl. "If not Potter, then what are you called, hm?"

Another shrug, careless. "True enough, Mr. Snape. I suppose there are enough Potters in the world for me to feel unrelated to these two, no?"

Snape's scowl twisted even more, but just as he was opening his mouth to speak Scrimgeour reached across the table to stop him. "Let's just move on, Snape."

And so the talk of war went on. He was glad to see that at least Scrimgeour was experienced in these matters and set to keep them all on task. As far as he was concerned, neither of the ministers deserved to know his past, even though he was in their employ. They would all just have to wait until they were in the need-to-know, that is to say never as long as the freak had a say in it. In the mean time, there was a war to be orchestrated.

Little did he know, he didn't have a say in it at all.

* * *

_Author's Note_: And that concludes Chapter I. I'm totally crazy, right? I'm going all out on the psychotic abuse on this one. Chapter II won't be far off since I've already got the first scene written and the next three planned out. Maybe a couple weeks or so if I remain uninspired in any of my other writing endeavors. If I hit on something good for one of my other stories though, this one's going on the back burner.

And before I forget, this has not been beta read, so if any one feels like helping me out on that front, please get in touch.

Thanks for reading. Live long and prosper and all that jazz.

* * *

Disclaimer: The _Harry Potter_ series belongs to one J.K. Rowling. Cover image is "Wasteland" by atomhawk on DeviantArt. I make no profit from this.

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	2. Chapter II

**_FREAK_**

* * *

_by  
__Hawa D.L.__  
_

* * *

**Chapter II  
**Here, freak, broaden your education a little.  
Maybe you won't yet burn in Hell with the rest of us.

* * *

"By the waters of Babylon,  
-+- there we sat down and wept,  
-+- when we remembered Zion.  
On the willows there  
-+- we hung up our lyres.  
For there our captors  
-+- required of us songs,  
And our tormentors, mirth, saying,  
-+- 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!'

"How shall we sing the Lord's song  
-+- in a foreign land?  
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,  
-+- let my right hand forget its skill!  
Let my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth,  
-+- if I do not remember you,  
if I do not set Jerusalem  
-+- above my highest joy!

"Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites  
-+- the day of Jerusalem,  
how they said, 'Lay it bare, lay it bare,  
-+- down to its foundations!'  
O daughter of Babylon, doomed to be  
-+- -+- destroyed,  
-+- blessed shall he be who repays you  
-+- with what you have done to us!  
Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones  
-+- and dashes them against the rock!"

– _The Bible, ESV__, Psalm 137: "How Shall We Sing the Lord's Song?"_

* * *

**Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Thursday, 14 September 2001, 11:30 P.M. GMT**

Severus Snape slammed the door to the room open, uncaring that it nearly bounced back closed in his companion's face before he caught it, and strode into the room in agitated flurry of black robes. Albus Dumbledore followed much more sedately behind him and shut the door before moving to sit at his desk. The pacing of his steps was timed just so, so he needed not interrupt his colleague's pacing on his way. Once seated he watched his friend attempt to walk out some of of his frustrations, but the man appeared to become only more upset as the minutes passed in tense silence. Severus, who was normally of a pallor to rival the dead's, had a face full of color and looked full to bursting with anxiety and anger and probably a plethora of other emotions as well. Albus checked the clock hanging by the door. _A minute more perhaps, then he'll have it out_, he mused, beginning to place silencing charms around the room.

Sure enough no more than a minute later Severus pivoted, robes flaring out behind him, to face the patiently waiting headmaster with a roar on his tongue. "He's a _fucking_ murderer, Albus! A goddamn _murderer_!"

Albus just peered at Severus over the top of his spectacles as if to ascertain whether the potions master was in good health. "Now, Severus, you usually aren't one for stating the obvious. What else would you expect from a mercenary, my boy?"

Severus rolled his eyes and picked up his pacing once again, but refrained from telling the old coot to shut the hell up. The last time he'd said that he'd been cursed with something rather embarrassing that made sitting quite the challenge for the following week and a half until it faded. "He's supposed to be the Savior of the whole fucking world and he helps kill the people in it! And _children_, Albus! Even children mean nothing more to him than the scum of the earth! He's not got a human heart in that chest of his, no soul. Surely you, who spouts on and on about the 'power of love' and other such bullshit, can see the issue with having a Savior even colder and more dangerous than the madman we're fighting against!"

Albus frowned. "Now, now, the boy is certainly no Voldemort."

"No, he's ten times worse than the Dark Lord, goddamn it! And you actually want me to teach him _magic_! As if he doesn't know enough ways to kill without it!"

"Severus!" Albus said harshly. "That is quite enough!"

"Bollocks! It'll never be enough! He'll kill Voldemort in any way possible without regard to however many of our own are lost along the way."

"Nonsense. If he is truly a master of war, he will find the way to win with as few losses to our side as possible. That's part of the art in it, something we've both seen, he and I, I do believe."

Severus was standing still before Albus' desk now, though for the life of him he couldn't remember ever stopping there. He shook his head plaintively. "No, you barmy old fool, don't you dare liken yourself to him, to a machine. I'd be surprised if he had blood in his veins," he muttered the last mostly to himself. Deep inside though he knew what the headmaster said was true. For three wars now, the first being against Grindlewald, Albus had played the role of war master to the best of his abilities. They both knew that he'd made mistakes though, and that the way the Second War was going was indicative that Voldemort had stepped up his game and Albus was out of his depth. They all were. Severus couldn't help but wonder what would happen to them all though once they placed their lives in the hands of a cold-blooded murderer, in hands that had once wrung the air from babes with nary a flicker of emotion—a memory gleaned from several subtle searches of legilimency by both himself and Albus. He sighed and took the seat beside him in front of the desk.

Albus pushed his glasses up slightly as he reached his fingers beneath them to rub ineffectually at the bridge of his crooked nose. "Machine or no, I trust him to win us this war."

At this, Severus blanched. "Are you mad?!" Then a snort. "Who am I kidding. Of course you are!"

"Hm." Albus gave him that 'are-you-sure-you're-alright-to-stay-up-and-have-t his-conversation?' look again.

Severus just glared right back.

"How far into his mind did you search, my boy?"

A shrug. "You know I'm not the greatest of legilimens, Albus. You?"

Albus was nodding in understanding. "Seeing as we had the time, I let my probe sink all the way down in the depths of his subconscious where his name should have been." He saw Severus sit up straighter at the "should have been." "I'd thought there was something a little off about the way he didn't identify with the Potters right away, so I looked for how he identified himself. Usually a thing as important as a name will leave an impression on everything in the mind, memories and thoughts, but there were no such traces in Mr. Potter's mind and that place where his name should have been was not only empty but torn from long ago and still slowly bleeding. There were a few nets, patches of sorts, thrown over the wound, probably thrown up by his magic subconsciously in order to allow him to function somewhat close to normalcy."

A snort this time. "Right, because being a mercenary is the epitome a your average twenty-one-year-old male."

Albus merely inclined his head. "Indeed. In one way it is a tactical advantage that none of the Death Eaters will be able to invoke magic using his name against him, as technically he has none. However, it has its obvious drawbacks. You are proficient enough in legilimency to monitor him as he learns and to eventually help him heal his mind and name him so he can move on in his studies."

Severus was staring at Dumbledore, gaping. "Name him…," came the breathless response.

"Yes, I know, you will have to be close to him in order to do so," but this voice sounded very far away to his friend.

Severus felt his heart collapse in his chest. "Close… You want me to be close…to yet another monster…"

Albus stood and rounded the desk to take the other man's hands in his own. "He is no monster. There is no ambition in him, no hunger. He is here to do a job and nothing more, and I believe he will do it well. But he can be more than this machine, Severus. He is a human being, struggling and in pain, and you can heal him." Severus was shaking his head again, but the headmaster went on, relentless. "You can fix all the broken things in him and give him life, a name, a heart with which to pump warm blood through his veins. You can do this for him."

"Albus, please. The man is a monster, a…a—"

A withered hand closed around his left forearm and he fell silent.

When the moment passed, it was with a weary sigh. "Severus, I fought for you when others said you should die. Please believe me when I say that I saw the human being he truly is beneath what the he's been molded into. He was born selfless and peaceful, but has since been broken in so many ways… Please, my boy. You can help him."

Severus buried his face in his hands, feeling vulnerable in a way he would allow himself to be only before his mentor. "I can't… I need—"

"Time, yes." The older wizard gave the younger a pat on the shoulder before returning to his seat behind his desk. "Perhaps you ought to take to take tomorrow off, start your weekend early, relax and prepare for the challenges to come."

Slowly, Severus nodded and stood, for once acquiescing without resistance. "Indeed, I think I shall. You will ensure that my classes are covered? I wouldn't like to be set back."

Albus waved him off. "Worry not, my boy. I will see to it. Do take care of yourself. Hopefully you'll remember to eat properly, but just in case I shall call on you sometime Saturday, hm?"

Severus just rolled his eyes as he made for the door. The headmaster would always do as he pleased. "Until then, Albus."

"Farewell."

The door shut with a quiet click behind him, and the old man sighed once more.

"And blessed shall he be…"

* * *

**Potions Master's Quarters, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Saturday, 16 September 2001, 3:00 P.M. GMT**

By noon of the second day of his extended weekend Severus was close to going stir crazy.

It was nice at first, productive. As it was only the second week into the school year, it was little trouble for him to finish all his grading as well as making minor adjustments to the lessons plans for each of his classes. The afternoon was spent reading the latest _Potions Quarterly_ journal, writing a scathing review which he sent off to the editor, and few hours on his own private brewing. He was currently in the process of improving upon the Dreamless Sleep potion. He was living proof that overuse causes both dependency and resistance. He didn't really care if he was dependent on the shit or not, so he was only focusing on making it stronger. Of course, these phials would have to stay locked in his quarters. They could prove noxious to children if taken accidentally. The evening was spent, after a hearty meal sent up by the house elves, with Joyce's _Ulysses_ a full glass of Shiraz in front of the fire. Then after five doses of Dreamless Sleep he was out for the night.

This day, however, he was itching to get out. He tried to occupy himself with his brewing and experimentation, but was successful by ten and lazing about in his sitting room the rest of the morning.

Oh, how he hated being idle.

The tension in his body was a familiar one, though it happened upon him less frequently now that he was older. The pull in his groin would not go unanswered and was far more tempting to submit to than the mark on his arm ever was. And it was thus that Severus was found in the showers at this time, cleaning body thoroughly and repeatedly and indulging himself in a couple of leisurely self-induced climaxes in preparation for a long night of shagging. Quite to his mortification, it was Albus who found him.

His mentor awkwardly cleared his throat, and only years of working as a spy saved him the added embarrassment of jumping and slipping in the tub. For a brief moment that felt like an eternity to the quickly blushing man with water dancing rivulets in intertwining paths down his body, the two simply stared at one another, the only things separating them being the low rim of the tub and the steam filling the room with heat.

Then, "Get the hell out of my bathroom, you old pervert! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Albus laughed. Laughed! "Come now, my boy, I've seen men in the buff before."

"_Man_," Severus emphasized. "A. Man. One. And I certainly hope that this encounter is not being seen in the same light." The potions master began making quick work of rinsing the conditioner out of his hair.

"Oh, certainly not, certainly not," the headmaster replied. "I just decided to check in on you, is all."

Severus shot a disbelieving look at the old wizard. "Surely you don't think me capable of drowning in the shower, Albus."

"Of course not, but I figured we could talk."

"I'm in the fucking shower, you dolt!"

Albus flicked the lid of the toilet closed with a dull _clam!_ and made himself comfortable. "Yes, but you do take forever getting ready for one of these nights of, as you so eloquently put it all those years ago, 'man-hunting'. So, how has your weekend been thus far?"

His companion's only answer was a series of unintelligible grunts as he ran a soapy washcloth over his body one last time. Somehow, Albus managed a translation.

"Good, good. It's nice to see that you're more relaxed now, considering the times and circumstances."

That earned him a glare. "Are you here simply to wreck my mood?" It was a weak comeback since, to his utter humiliation, Severus was still half hard. _I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now_.

"Nonsense, my boy—"

"And for the love of Merlin, stop calling me your boy. You're in my bathroom and I'm soaking wet and _naked_. This is a new height of weird, even for you, Albus," appealed the potions master in clear exasperation.

The older wizard cleared his throat once more. "Yes, well, I daresay you're not my type."

A snort. "I should hope not." Declaring himself clean, Severus turned off the water and patted himself dry with a white towel. Surprisingly the silence from his observer wasn't as awkward as he would have imagined it to be. His back to Albus, he started searching through various bottles lined up on the counter beside the sink. Finding the body oil he was looking for, he faced his friend again as he began the next step in his ablutions. "Really now, Headmaster, why are you here?"

The headmaster in question was rummaging through the various pockets hidden within the folds of his sky blue, cloud-patterned robes. "Do you not recall my mentioning that I'd be visiting today?"

A pause. "Right."

Finally Albus pulled a lemon drop from the correct pocket, plucked a piece of lint off, and plopped it in his mouth. He fished out another. "Lemon drop?" he offered.

Severus made a face. "Not on your life."

Albus shrugged and put it back, sucking on his own candy with a happy hum. "You know, sugar is good for the soul."

"So is fucking."

"Yes, but you don't have to hunt for candies now, do you?"

Severus just chuckled. "But that's the fun of it, old friend."

"Hm. Where are you starting out tonight?"

The potions master was thoughtful. "I'll probably begin with the wizarding pubs, get together a decent hunting party. Then we'll hit the muggle clubs."

Albus chortled. "My goodness! You have an entire method to this madness. And one that sounds distinctly lion-esque, oh Head of Slytherin House."

"Har har. Wolves hunt this way too, not to mention humans. That we'll be hunting our own kind is no difference really." Towel now wrapped around his slender waist, Severus moved on to spelling the potions stains from his skin, leaving alabaster trails in his wand's wake.

"You know, this wouldn't take so long if you would just wash daily like you ought to."

A tired sigh. "Please tell me that you are not trying to critique the hygienic habits of a forty-one-year-old man."

Albus simply gave an unhelpful shrug that made his companion groan. "I know you're old enough to take care of yourself, but really, why you would choose not to is beyond me."

"I have a persona to maintain, you old fool. Severus the Death Eater doesn't care that his hair is greasy and his skin is sallow and his teeth are yellow and crooked. Come to think of it, Severus the Potions Master couldn't give a damn about what color his hands were either. Severus the Man on the Hunt, however, _he_ gives a damn."

Now it was Albus' turn to sigh, privately wondering when his friend was ever just Severus. "Surely you could at least do without those awful teeth," he mumbled, tapping said teeth with his wand to align and whiten them. He didn't stop the flow of magic until they were all straight and bright, only a shade or two off white.

Severus turned and bared his teeth with a grimace, examining them in the mirror and rubbing his sore jaw. "Passable." A.K.A.: Very nice. "Thank you."

But Albus waved him off with a smile. "Come on then. Let's get you dressed."

* * *

**A302 Bridge Street, London, England, UK, Saturday, 16 September 2001, 8:00 P.M. GMT**

He released a content sigh as he pocketed his lighter and leaned back in his chair, taking a drag on his cigarette and soaking in the view. The sun was low in the sky and a spread of warm colors were reflected in the river flowing under the bridge. The cigarette smoke wafted around him before drifting out of the open window of the observatory at the top of his flat. It smelt spicy and sweet, and he hummed in satisfaction at his well-deserved break. He had all the plans he could conceive with his current level of intelligence plotted out, though he did have a few experiments to run before he knew which ones to set in motion. In particular, he wanted to know the power and skill levels of all the fighters at his disposal so he could arrange the squadrons accordingly. He would also need to test the effectiveness of muggle weaponry against wizards and see if training some of them up would be a worth while venture. Now, however, he figured, since work would begin in earnest on Monday, was the best time for his traditional night out. One last night of pure and simple living before he slipped fully into his assignment.

These nights were always best played out in big cities, and he couldn't be more glad at that moment that he was located in London for his very last assignment. Born in England though he was, he'd never been, and being there now was like coming full-circle, a fitting place to begin the last chapter of this phase in his life. He couldn't even begin to fathom what he'd do with himself after all this was over, but those thoughts could wait until he'd nailed his mark.

Nearly a half hour later the cigarette was finished and he stretched before making his way downstairs. He passed his bedroom and went further down into the kitchen where he helped himself to a chicken caesar salad and then spent a full ten minutes brushing and flossing and rinsing every trace of his dinner from his mouth in the bathroom. On a whim he grabbed a black Sharpie and wrote a few lines to a poem on his right cheek and a few more on his left hand. He was so familiar with the words that looking in the mirror didn't throw off his writing, which was neat and straight in small capitals. He smirked as he took in his reflection. Maybe he'd give whomever could name it a treat. A blow job in the bathroom perhaps.

Practically strutting, he returned to his bedroom to dress. He'd already made his inquiries after the club scenes in the area, and after deciding if he was in the mood for men or women, to pick up or be picked up, for someone kinky or vanilla, he'd finally settled on an outfit for the night, which was currently hanging on his closet door. Though new, the jeans were nothing special, just a black cotton-spandex blend with holes in all the right places. The real eye-catcher was the silver skin-tight mesh tank top he was wearing with it. He'd wear three black hoops (two in his lip, one in his upper ear), brand new black biker boots, a leather trench coat, and a short piece of broken chain he'd acquired some years ago and since took to wearing as a choker from time to time to complete the ensemble. Not exactly the most effort he could have put into the getup, but he knew from experience that the sight of his dark nipples through the reflective shirt as he danced would lead men to him not five minutes after he'd remove his coat. Deciding that his nails were fine without an additional coat of nail polish, he began to don his clothing, and not five minutes later, face hidden behind black bangs, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, he was headed out the door.

Having settled for something lighthearted and fun, he made his way toward a popular gay bar in Soho, the trench coat flaring out behind him as he sped out of the car park on his bike. Though the johns in the club were sure to be nothing special, a colleague of his once remarked that if everyone else in the place is lame then you'll definitely be the coolest one there. Despite the fact that as far as he was concerned he was always the coolest person in the room, it was also fact that the less dignified the quarry the surer they were to flock to him as moths to a flame. It was simply a matter of course.

Catching sight of Vauxhall, he chose to park his bike in a nearby alley and make his way into the club on foot. Inside, everything about the Bar Code was just as loud and bright and, well, _gay_ as he'd expected. There were men with tight pants and bare chests all over both levels of the club, gyrating and grinding and swaying with the throbbing pulse of the bass booming in every corner, vibrating his very bones. His trench coat left in the coat room, he joined the masses, and sure enough there were soon hands sneaking out from everywhere around him, palming his arse, sliding over his chest, strangers' bodies pressed close and moving with his. He spent the next hours in a haze of arousal and music he could feel but couldn't be bothered to understand, always half hard, always touching someone, whispering in their ears, licking sweat from their necks, embracing the slick slide of sweat-soaked skin. Men came and went, behind or in front of him, their thighs between his, pricks pressed close, their wandering fingers sometimes buried in his hair, sometimes tweaking his nipples, sometimes questing lower, groping in places to make him groan. No matter how thirsty he became, he never stopped dancing, never stopped touching. Would not until an acceptable fuck for the night came his way.

God _damn_, he loved acting like a slut!

_And would you look at that._

This man practically had A+ stamped on his forehead, and, of course, he was headed the freak's way. More than that, he looked like a lioness closing in on an antelope strayed too far from the herd, so intense was his focus. Just a glance was enough to tell that he didn't belong here, and a second look was enough to tell him exactly why. A wizard. In a white poet's shirt, the laces left open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth pale chest, like sculpted marble. Dark, dark brown leather trousers, curving to hug his hips, his thighs—_His arse probably looks incredible in those_—dear god, barely enough room for his junk._ Definitely no room for pants under there_. Tan suede boots, ankle high. And silky shoulder-length hair cascading in ebony waves around a face the freak would not soon forget.

Slowly a predatory smirk slid across his features in reply.

_Let the game begin_.

* * *

_Author's Note_: I'm sooooo sorry this is so late! And that it's only filler! I do have a good excuse though. It was only going to be a day or so late when my dad jacked my laptop, 'cause he's a punk ass nigga with shit for brains. Well, he didn't jack it, more like confiscated it. Wanna know why? Of course not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. He said my lithium and serotonin boosters weren't working. (...) Of course not, you jack ass! I only started the fucking prescription last week! *Deep breaths*

'Kay. Glad I finally got that off my chest. In regards to the story though, I was agonizing over how to end this chapter when my dad freaked out and started jacking my shit. I just got my computer back, like, an hour ago and decided that enough time has passed that y'all deserved something to read, even though it's nowhere near as polished as I would have liked. In fact, there's a whole other scene that was supposed to be in here, but I'll probably just make it a flashback in the next chapter, which I'm _so_ looking forward to writing. (The freak gets to meet the Order! And the guns come out! Fun times.) Will probably be at least three weeks before the next update.

Also, a reviewer mentioned that US airspace was closed for a while right after 9/11 (Hawa had a _DUH!_ moment xp ), so one of these next few updates the dates will change, a minute time skip of about a week or so. I'll go back and edit earlier chapters after I'm finished. Oh, and I've never been to London before, but Google's my best friend, and _he_ said that the address for the freak's apartment does exist. I'm pretty sure it's a government building, but it exists. lol

Still looking for a beta, y'all!

Thank you all so very much for reading. Live long and prosper and all that jazz.

* * *

Disclaimer: The _Harry Potter_ series belongs to one J.K. Rowling. Cover image is "Wasteland" by atomhawk on DeviantArt. I make no profit from this.

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter III

**_FREAK_**

* * *

_by_  
_Hawa D.L._

* * *

**Chapter III  
**Always remember, kid: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.**  
**

* * *

"Can you lie next to her and give her your heart, your heart,  
-+- as well as your body?  
And can you lie next to her and confess your love, your love,  
-+- as well as your folly?  
And can you kneel before the king and say, 'I'm clean, I'm clean'?

"But tell me now, where was my fault  
-+- in loving you with my whole heart?  
Oh, tell me now, where was my fault  
-+- in loving you with my whole heart?

"A white blank page and a swelling rage, rage.  
You did not think when you sent me to the brink, to the brink.  
You desired my attentions but denied my affections, my affections.

"So tell me now, where was my fault  
-+- in loving you with my whole heart?  
Oh, tell me now, where was my fault  
-+- in loving you with my whole heart?

"Lead me to the truth and I  
-+- will follow you with my whole life.  
Oh, lead me to the truth and I  
-+- will follow you with my whole life."

– _Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More,"White Blank Page"_

* * *

**Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogsmeade, Scotland, UK, Monday, 24 September 2001, 7:55 P.M. GMT**

"What are the healers doing here? Isn't this a strategy meeting?"

Severus Snape had to resist the urge to sigh as the inane babble of the Order's generals washed over him. The many long tables and benches that filled the Great Hall during the day had been removed, one large round table placed near the main entrance instead, leaving the majority of the space empty. Most everyone required at the meeting was already present, save two. The ten healers, the source of debate amongst the soldiers, were seated side by side to Severus' left, looking highly uncomfortable and out of place, no doubt due to the less than warm welcome from the twenty men and women on the other side of the table. Severus couldn't keep the sneer off his face as his eyes observed the people entrusted to lead the rest of the Order members into battle. _How stupid do you have to be to insult and belittle those who very well may be all that will stand between you and death in the near future? Idiots, the lot of them_.

Casting a Tempus charm, he saw that it was nearly eight, causing him to frown, not that anyone else would've been able to tell. _What the hell is keeping them? Albus and Potter should have been here by now_. Not that he was at all anxious to see that son of a bitch, Potter, again. Just thinking about him set his blood boiling. He was honest enough with himself to admit that this was mainly due to his own embarrassment, but that little fact did nothing to assuage his anger. In truth, it only made it flare brighter.

The event that Severus was so hung up on was truly nothing extraordinary or earth-shattering, but to a man like him it mattered a great deal. It happened Saturday night when he was out with a group of four others to go clubbing. One was a man named Micheal Weston, an acquaintance of his whom he'd first met in a pub a few years previous. The others were Weston's friend David and a couple on a quest for a threesome. To Severus' and Weston's irritation the group had ended up at a flashy club called the Bar Code where the pickings were slim, at least for those with standards. However, luck seemed to be with him as not long into the night he had spied a sexy young man wearing a silver sleeveless shirt and dancing in a way that sung of freedom and liberation, a feeling Severus had never known before.

And Severus had wanted him.

Wanted him so badly it had hurt. The voices of his companions and the sound of music had faded into the background as his eyes remained glued to the man's sinuous form. It had started as a drift, then strides, then he was stalking toward him, only aware of the blood rushing through his veins, the bass reverberating in his chest, and his prey.

About then was when his good fortune had turned bad.

When his prey had met Severus' eyes, he'd smirked, a chilling, cold, confident look on his strong face shrouded in long black hair. A niggling thought had entered his mind then concerning this hunter-like behavior, but he was too consumed in his longing to make a note of it.

At times even the smartest of men may act a fool.

When the two had finally met on the dance floor their bodies had come together with magnetic force, both moaning and moving in synchronization as though the one had been made for the other. They were even around the same height, about six feet even with their boots on. With the addition of their equally pale skin and ebony hair it was like Severus had been looking in a mirror and seeing another part of himself. In hindsight, he wanted to smack himself for having allowed such sentimental drivel to pass through his brain. _Merlin, I made such an ass of myself_.

There had been lines of what appeared to be poetry written on the man's cheek, and Severus had found himself mouthing the words as he read them:

_THOSE ARE PEARLS THAT WERE HIS EYES. LOOK!_

_AND I TIRESIAS HAVE FORESUFFERED ALL  
__ENACTED ON THIS SAME DIVAN OR BED;  
__I WHO HAVE SAT BY THEBES BELOW THE WALL  
__AND WALKED AMONG THE LOWEST OF THE DEAD.__  
_

The man had just smiled and raised his hand where more was written:

_UNREAL CITY,  
__UNDER THE BROWN FOG OF A WINTER DAWN,  
__A CROWD FLOWED OVER LONDON BRIDGE, SO MANY,  
__I HAD NOT THOUGHT DEATH HAD UNDONE SO MANY.__  
_

_LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN FALLING DOWN FALLING DOWN_

"That's a beautiful piece," Severus had commented, the sound more breath than voice.

"I know," was the response. Then, "At least you can read. But do you know what it's called?"

And Severus had paused; as well-read as he was, he'd never bothered with exploring the world of modern poetry, preferring classic English literature and Greek and Roman epics and plays. As such, the mention of the famous blind prophet, Tiresias, had instantly had several Ancient Greek titles on the tip of his tongue even though they would obviously be the wrong answers.

This must have been written all over his face because the man had _tsk_-_tsk_ed and spoke again, this time with a slight pout on his lips. "Aw, that's too bad. And I was all set to give you a treat too. Tell you what: since I kinda like you I'll give you another chance. Can you guess who wrote it?"

Severus, finally realizing that he had absolutely no control of the conversation whatsoever, had to rein in a rather frustrating combination of irritation and lust as they began to rise higher and higher. He might have wanted this man, but he had his pride too, damnit, and would not be made to jump through hoops just to get some ass. The very notion was ludicrous!

And so it was with a mental shrug (_To hell with it!_) that Severus had replied coolly, "Haven't a clue."

But then the man had groaned and slipped his hips away so they were no longer pressed tight against each other. "You were _this_ close to being perfect!" he'd exclaimed, holding his thumb and forefinger close together. Then came a shrug accompanied by a gusty sigh. "Oh, well. Plenty of other fish in the sea. See you Monday night, Professor." And he'd moved to go before turning back to face a shell-shocked Severus Snape. "Oh, and would you mind terribly informing Albus that he should have a few healers present at the meeting? I forgot to mention it when I last saw him. Good thing running into you though, since you're sure to speak with him before I am." A pause. Severus still hadn't responded. "You _will_ pass on the message, won't you?"

A stiff nod.

"Cheers," and a smile.

And then he was lost in the crowd.

_That was Potter_.

It had taken a full five minutes for the thought to actually sink in.

And it had taken a full night of shagging Weston senseless to become calm enough to function again.

Though as the doors to the Great Hall opened and Albus stepped through escorting the Great White Git, Severus could feel all the rage returning, as strong and as pure as if it'd never left. As impassive as he normally maintained his expression, he knew that his wrath showed as fire in his eyes as he set his sights on Potter. His glare was so strong it should've made the prat keel over, but no, onward he sauntered with a black duffel tossed on one shoulder, as confident and as self-assured as ever, his gaze passing coolly over those assembled. And then the unthinkable happened: as his eyes swept over Severus, he actually had the gall to blink at him. _Blink_! And he was fucking smirking too! Why, that little effing prick! The sheer _nerve_ of him!

The potions master's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. _I could strangle the little blighter_.

And then the meeting was starting.

* * *

The freak was skilled at maintaining a serious face while fighting the urge to laugh since he usually had a ridiculously inappropriate sense of humor. And so it was that as he stood before the best of the Order of the Phoenix being introduced as Field Marshal and preparing for a basic debriefing and training tests, that he managed not to burst out laughing at the death glare Snape was sending his way. He'd never had to deal with a woman scorned before, something his long-range mark instructor had warned him of, but he was pretty sure that Snape would beat any woman hands down, judging by the amount of fury radiating off him in waves.

He pushed this amusement to the back of his mind, however, as he stood to begin the debriefing. "Good evening. My name is Harry Potter, though you may address me as Field Marshal or sir. I am a mercenary by trade and have been hired to turn the tide of this war.

"It should be clear to you lot by now that we are indeed fighting a losing battle. Our enemy has unlimited resources thanks to the Philosopher's Stone, the public's favor, and, in just a fortnight's time, they will have the Ministry as well." He ignored the gasps of surprise here and continued on. "Most of the government officials left in office have already been bought and coerced to joining the ranks of the Death Eaters. Out of the one thousand or so employees remaining, only twenty-five are loyal to Britain. Minister Scrimgeour has been walking a fine line these last few years and has done an admirable job holding off the inevitable. He is a walking dead man who will be forced out of his position within two weeks at the most and certainly assassinated by Halloween.

"This makes Hogwarts the next target as it is the only stronghold left to those who oppose the Death Eaters. The last two years have seen this school turn into a fortress. It has become headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, a sanctuary to those unwilling to flee their homeland, and training grounds to future soldiers, all in addition to its normal function. It has essentially become a small city, a home to thousands in this dark time, and come the new year it will be under siege by a force of over 500,000 witches and wizards and thousands more dark creatures at their sides. And our number currently stands at just 1,020 fighters.

"As you can tell, we have our work cut out for us. Buck up, now; I wouldn't still be here if I couldn't see a way to win. Our primary goals internally will be to train, recruit, and build alliances. To do this, we'll need time; to get time, we'll need to delay the siege; to delay the siege, we'll need to enact a series of external goals: First, cut off the Death Eaters' supply lines; second, assassinate most of their Inner Circle; and third, steal or destroy the Stone."

He gave this information a moment to sink in before picking back up again. "If we space these distractions appropriately we will be able to delay the siege up to as much as six months, placing the attack somewhere near June. So basically, this means that we have until then to increase both our numbers and our skill until each of us can hold our own against upwards of five hundred men apiece."

All those present shifted in their seats and glanced at each other uneasily.

Inside, the freak smirked. "I will design special teams to tackle both the external and internal goals later on this week. For now, before we begin training we need to assess where we are in our skills and where we need to be. Follow me."

And with that he swung his bag over his shoulder, barely noticing the additional heavy weight of his guns, and swept from the hall. Murmurs and glances abounded before Dumbledore stood to follow him, Snape barely a beat behind. The others finally did the same, obviously not wanting to be left behind despite their apprehension at the abrupt appearance and brusk manner of the "Chosen One" (_Puh-_leez. _How ridiculous can wizards_ get?). The laughter so close to bubbling to the surface that the freak was forced to bite his tongue to keep from grinning like a fool.

_Death-trap though this may be, it sure as hell is gonna be fun._

* * *

The generals and healers all whispered to one another as the group followed the newly named Field Marshal across the twilit grounds of Hogwarts to the Quidditch pitch. Severus, on the other hand, was content to remain silent; however, a certain headmaster had other ideas.

"It is quite a relief," commented Albus lowly, "to no longer have to deal with the stress of being in charge of all this. It ages one, you know, and when that one is as old as I, well, I suppose I may count myself among the blessed to have lived so long."

Severus heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Headmaster, I'm sure you are aware of how tiresome I find such pointless chatter."

His friend smiled at this, his thrice-damned twinkling eyes shining like stars. "But of course! Hence why I enjoy filling your ear with it."

"Ah, but of course," he responded sourly. A twitch had formed beneath Severus' right eye.

Gratefully, it was at that moment that the group arrived at their destination: the training grounds, which five years previous used to be the school Quidditch pitch. Potter stopped in the center of the field where he set down his large duffel and waited till the stragglers caught up. Once all were gathered and silent he began his instructions with a bark.

"Generals! Line up shoulder to shoulder in order of seniority! Most years to my left, least to my right! Quickly people, move it! Healers, Dumbledore, and Snape, to me!"

Severus had to repress the urge to stomp his foot. He hadn't behaved in such a way since he was an adolescent, and there was a snowball's chance in hell that he was going to start again now. Between that prick's smirking and Albus' twinkling, however, this proved surprisingly difficult. He was well aware of his anger issues—had been since before his Hogwarts days, to tell the truth—but the fire had never burned this bright, this hot for so long before. The mere sight of the Potter brat made him want to scream, and since his friend's consistent response to his ire (Albus had always possessed an uncanny ability to sense that sort of thing) was to be even more annoying than usual, Severus' blood pressure was at an all-time high. He was sure he would have to spend the next few nights meditating and sorting his thoughts lest he die prematurely of an aneurysm. He still made a mental note to brew more potion for his hypertension after tonight's meeting, just to be on the safe side.

It only took a moment for all the healers to join him and Albus with the new Field Marshall, where they were soon made aware of his plans for the evening.

"Thank you for attending tonight's meeting," he began, addressing the healers. "I understand this is a bit of a break from routine, but I have a feeling your presence might needed." Turning to Albus, he continued, "Dumbledore, if you would, please draw the field into ten even parts so the generals will have spaces to duel. Take the healers with you and leave one of them to oversee each section."

The headmaster, ever congenial, complied with a nod. "Of course, my dear boy, no trouble at all."

Severus almost smirked when he noticed Potter's smile get just a little bit tighter. "Thank you. Wait for me in the commentator's box when you're done."

The healers left with Albus, ever silent and awkward, following the eccentric wizard like sheep. Severus was musing over their apparent shyness when a thought suddenly struck him like lightning: he was currently alone with the bane of his existence, a remarkable status considering the short amount of time they'd been in acquaintance. He remembered a nearly instantaneous dislike of his father, James. Perhaps it was a family trait.

"Now, for you, Snape."

He could feel the growl building in his chest and just barely managed to cut it off before it reached his throat. Instead Severus merely arched an eyebrow. "Yes?" _This better be important. I was nursing my hatred of you when that damn gravelly voice of yours interrupted._

It grated his nerves to see the man's smirk broaden, become more genuine. "You're going to be in charge of judging the duelists. You're the most familiar with the skill levels of the Death Eaters. For each level, the Inner Circle being the highest, there should be a scale of one to ten, one being sub-par, five being par, and ten being mastered."

Severus chose to simply grunt his acquiescence. Even more irritating than the smirk was that he didn't mind his job. Critiquing a bunch of idiots? Actually sounds like fun.

Even more irritating than his reluctant pleasure, however, was that he couldn't stop himself, no matter how hard he tried, from checking out Potter's arse as he bent over to fish something out of his bag.

This time it was a scream he bit off.

When he stood up, the son of a bitch flipped his braid over his shoulder and grinned at Severus. "Here you go," he said, handing the potions master clipboard with a wad paper and a muggle pen. "You can head on up to the commentator's box. I'll join you once I've got this lot organized."

The spy found himself fighting a blush—_A flush, damnit! A flush!_—the entire walk up to the box. Every second spent in that brat's presence worked at loosening the self-control he'd spent years mastering. If Albus had seen him at that moment he surely would've asked if he'd just had a Pepper Up potion, because he was positive steam was pouring out of his ears.

* * *

_Author's Note_: My sincerest apologies, but my family has decided to take an impromptu journey to visit family this weekend so I had to cut out the duels that were supposed to fill up the latter half of this chapter. When I post Chapter IV on the 15th though I'll re-upload this chapter as it should be.

Also, thank you so, so much to those who reviewed with ideas for the story! I'm happy to say that they are definitely being utilized. Also _muchas gracias_ to Moi, whose massive review on the first chapter of this story sowed the seeds for the rest of it. Dead serious. This story would be impossible for me to write without taking into consideration all of the issues that you raised. Please accept my humble gratitude. *bows super duper extra low*

(BETAS. BETAS. CALLING ALL BETAS...only if you're interested.)

Thanks for reading even though I'm the worst updater on the planet. Live long and prosper and all that jazz.

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Disclaimer: The _Harry Potter_ series belongs to one J.K. Rowling. Cover image is "Wasteland" by atomhawk on DeviantArt. I make no profit from this.

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**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	4. The Duels

_**FREAK**_

* * *

_by_

_Hawa D.L._

* * *

**The Duels**

* * *

(A peak at Severus Snape's clipboard:)

_Generals (In order of seniority):_

_Alastor Moody_  
_Aberforth Dumbledore  
__Olympe Maxime  
__Filius Flitwick  
__Amelia Bones  
__Kingsley Shacklebolt  
__Igor Karkaroff  
__Minerva McGonagall  
__Augusta Longbottom  
__Sturgis Podmore  
__Nymphadora Tonks  
__Arthur Weasley  
__Dirk Cresswell  
__Remus Lupin  
__Molly Weasley  
__Edward Tonks  
__Hestia Jones  
__Nathaniel Westernberg  
__William Weasley  
__Viktor Krum__  
_

_Round 1 matches and section assignments:_

_S. 1 – A. Moody VS A. Dumbledore  
__S. 2 – O. Maxime VS F. Flitwick  
__S. 3 – A. Bones VS K. Shacklebolt  
__S. 4 – I. Karkaroff VS M. McGonagall  
__S. 5 – A. Longbottom VS S. Podmore  
__S. 6 – N. Tonks VS A. Weasley  
__S. 7 – D. Cresswell VS R. Lupin  
__S. 8 – M. Weasley VS E. Tonks  
__S. 9 – H. Jones VS N. Westernberg  
__S. 10 – W. Weasley VS V. Krum__  
_

* * *

Minerva McGonagall hated to admit it, but she was getting old.

The only thing that made her feel better about this fact was that her opponent, named Igor Karkaroff and an entire _decade_ her junior, was tiring even faster than she was. This was fortunate, as they were fairly evenly matched otherwise. As strong as his defenses were, it was clear that offense was his strong suit. In fact, Minerva was almost positive that he was putting too much power into his curses, hence his lagging energy. Instead of firing off a barrage of spells like Karkaroff, she threw curses at her opponent only when she thought she would get a hit, and thus spending most of her time dodging, even though she kept a shield up at all times. The reason for this is because shields themselves take next to no energy to maintain. It's when they're attacked that they start leeching magic like mad. And so it was that Minerva spent most of their duel prancing about the field as though she were in her animagus shape (and puffing like the aging lady she was), and Karkaroff spent it trying to hone his aim.

Finally seeing Karkaroff's wand movements slow down significantly, Minerva thanked her lucky stars once again that he was running out of magic faster than she was running out of air, and went for endgame. Having kept in mind Potter's rules (namely: "Cause your opponent no injury the medic assigned to you can't heal on the field"), Minerva had transfigured a number of pebbles all over the field into small needles and imbued them with her magic. She couldn't help the smirk on her lips as with a _swish_ and a _flick_ they went flying toward their target.

Tired as the poor man was, Karkaroff spent several invaluable moments glancing around for the source of the sudden whistling noise, which he did not find until all thirty of them embedded themselves in his right knee simultaneously. Too shocked to even scream, Karkaroff tumbled to the ground and was quickly struck unconscious by Minerva's Stunner.

Primly, Minerva pivoted and returned to the sidelines, smug and satisfied, while the Section Four medic levitated Karkaroff up to the stands. _So this is how the cat feels once she's caught the canary_.

* * *

_Round 2 matches_

_Winners of R. 1:_

_S. 1 – A. Moody VS F. Flitwick  
__S. 2 – A. Bones VS M. McGonagall  
__S. 3 – A. Longbottom VS N. Tonks  
__S. 4 – R. Lupin VS M. Weasley  
__S. 5 – H. Jones VS V. Krum__  
_

_Losers of R. 1:_

_S. 6 – A. Dumbledore VS O. Maxime  
__S. 7 – K. Shacklebolt VS I. Karkaroff  
__S. 8 – S. Podmore VS A. Weasley  
__S. 9 – D. Cresswell VS E. Tonks  
__S. 10 – N. Westernberg VS W. Weasley__  
_

* * *

Sturgis Podmore was pissed.

Why was he pissed? is the natural question to follow this statement.

And the answer is this: Sturgis Podmore had just had his arse handed to him by an old lady. Damn near ancient as far as he was concerned. Never mind the fact that the brothers Dumbledore were in fact much older and he would no doubt pale at the thought of dueling them.

Alas, welcome to the mind of the macho man.

The only thing worse than that would be what his present opponent, Arthur Weasley, had suffered—that is to say, to have been beaten by a woman less than half one's age, in this case a fiery pink-haired lass named Nymphadora Tonks. Be she Auror or not, the shame would surely be tough to bear. However, despite this sympathy he bore Arthur, Sturgis was still pissed-off in the extreme, and the only outlet for his anger was the current duel. He and Arthur had similar styles: mostly relying on a quick variety of chained curses, maximum use of silent casting, and dodging, only shielding when necessary. Neither he nor his opponent had an area of specialization, he knew, and nothing in the repertoire of one would be a surprise to the other. Thus, theirs was a battle of wits and skill. Sturgis was confident he would win.

He poured every ounce of his fury and shame into his attack, chaining a handful of schoolyard jinxes with an Expelliarmus, two Stupefies, and a Reducto, the last aimed at the ground before the Weasley patriarch's feet. The ground exploded with a bang, a thick cloud of dirt rising up and obscuring any attempt at visual confirmation that his other spells had struck their target. Sturgis had his answer, however, when a flurry of curses shot through the dust straight at him. Half of them were Tarantallegras, so he focused most of his attention of dodging the Stunners.

And thus failed to see the Diffindo following that series of spells until he came out of a spin and caught the brunt of it in the abdomen. The spray of gore had him frozen, then the blooming pain felled him, and finally, as his attacker came into view, fury had him trembling.

He glared balefully up at Arthur Weasley, spat at his shoes. "Fuck you."

But the older man only offered a small, sad smile. "Sorry, my friend." And he raised his wand.

Then everything went black.

* * *

_Finals  
__Dueled 1 at a time in center 2 sections__  
_

_Match 1 – A. Moody VS V. Krum  
__Match 2 – A. Bones VS R. Lupin  
__Match 3 – N. Tonks VS winner of M. 1  
__Match 4 – winner of M. 2 VS winner of M. 3__  
_

* * *

"_Да еба_! Fuck!"

Viktor Krum was well and truly screwed.

His battle against Bill Weasley had been won through skill, though the two had, admittedly, been closely matched. His battle against Hestia Jones, on the other hand, had been won through sheer bloody-minded determination. He'd been severely out-classed, brute force against an elegant citadel, but even Rome fell. The fight had been over the second he'd wormed his way behind her shields and struck her down with a Stunner. He'd walked away wounded and bleeding heavily, but victorious.

This battle against Mad-Eye, however, left him floundering, completely out of his depth. The likelihood of Viktor walking away at all was rapidly diminishing; instead, he was becoming more and more certain that by the time it was over the medis would be levitating his unconscious body up to the stands and out of harm's way.

But Viktor Krum wasn't going down without a fight.

At present, Viktor was crouched behind a transfigured slab of stone, nursing a broken wrist and a twisted ankle and trying to come up with a tentative plan of action. However, everything he came up with in his brief seconds of respite was immediately dismissed as futile. _Curse that damn eye of his_. Everyone knew that Moody's enchanted eye could see through physical blocks and most forms of deception. Viktor, though, was coming to understand that it did a helluva lot more than that. He was pretty sure that it offered some perverted sort of Mage Sight, showing all the threads of intent, power, causes, and effects woven into Viktor's spells. In addition, it probably allowed rapid processing of visual information. Thus, Moody didn't have to run around because he always adapted his shields so that the specific points of impact with incoming spells always had only just enough power to either dispel or repel them. Such a feat would be impossible for anyone else Viktor knew of; they'd all end up wasting their power and passing out before too long. To top it all off, the other man's spell-casting was naught but a blur to Viktor's eyes. He would dodge one spell only to narrowly escape another just to fall into the path of the one Mad-Eye had really wanted to hit him with all along.

Yeah. Viktor Krum was fucked.

He sighed. _Damn it. Guess I'm winging it_. Having healed his ankle and numbed his wrist, Viktor darted out from his hiding space, a curse on the tip of his tongue, wand moving, ready to strike.

And got a face-full of red Stunner.

* * *

_Match 3 – N. Tonks VS A. Moody_

* * *

While waiting for her turn to duel, Nymphadora "Do _not_ call me Nymphadora!" Lupin née Tonks realized that she was feeling oddly feminine at the moment. Well, she supposed it wasn't too odd really considering the fact that the cause was right before her. He was attractive and kind and gentle, so gentle, especially with her, his touch so soft, almost as though she was made of glass. But now that genteel face was twisted, fierce and ferocious, beaded with sweat as he fought with all his might, and those lean muscles, a safe haven that housed her late in the night, were taut and ready to injure, to maim, to kill. He was precise and sure of foot, damn near graceful in fact. And he was hers.

Unconsciously, a sensual smirk kissed Tonks' lips. Watching Remus Lupin duel had always been a sure way to get her hot and wet. After the congregation was dismissed, she would see if her mother would mind picking Teddy up from the daycare and watching him for the night. Though her husband was clearly losing to Amelia Bones' superior skill, she felt he deserved a bit of a reward.

Later that night, when they were both alone with one another and at peace, Remus would ask her what it was for.

And she'd say, "Just for being you."

* * *

_Match 4 – A. Bones VS A. Moody_

* * *

Fleur Delacour was bored senseless. Once the duels had been limited to being fought one at a time, there'd been little for her to do. Most of her time had so far been spent dodging attempts to speak with her by the younger male medis. One Dennis Creevey was particularly persistent. The other women (_Spiteful bitches, the lot of them._) merely watched on in amusement, sneering and jeering and snickering at the spectacle. Thankfully, Andromeda Tonks took pity on her plight and rescued her from the dumb hounds hot on her tail (_Ha! In more ways than one._) and engaged her in conversation instead.

The words they exchanged were meaningless, of this they were both aware. Nevertheless, it killed the time, and so they persisted. By the time the final duel came around, however, they were fishing for fresh topics, having run out some minutes before. But then the duel began, and—by Merlin!—was it vicious. Fleur shrugged slightly to herself as she turned to her interlocutor and asked, "Who you think will win this duel? They are both quite fierce and have plenty of experience."

Andromeda nodded, seemingly thankful for a break in their awkward silence. "Yes, and their skill is unparallelled by many of the other generals. Bones was Mad-Eye's first pupil and thus far is his greatest. The fight will surely be close, however, I think Moody's magical eye will give him the advantage he needs."

"True," Fleur agreed. "Though it is impressive how well Amelia Bones must know him to be able to push him so far. Abe and Professor Flitwick were the only other duelists to land a hit on him, and those were minor at that."

At this, Andromeda gave a thoughtful hum. "You're right. They must be good friends, though I've never noticed them together before."

"Oh?" laughed Fleur. "And how often do you see them when they're conscious?"

Her companion sucked her teeth and aimed a swat at her arm of which she artfully dance out of the way. Andromeda made a face. "You know what I—"

The sentence ended on a choked sound, and Fleur's smile faded as she saw the look on the older woman's face. She turned to face the sight of the duel just in time to see Alastor Moody collapse to the ground, a hole clearly through the left side of his chest. Amelia Bones was covered in his blood, face fixed in shock and dawning horror. The air between them was still colored in the red mist.

And all was silence.

But then Fleur's heart gave a beat that could be heard around the world, and all hell broke loose.

* * *

_Author's Note_: Like the teaser? I realize that chapter IV was supposed to be up, like, half a century ago, but I couldn't decide who all to put in position of General. I think I like the list as is though. Working on chapter IV still, but should be finished soon.

Also, I would like to formally apologize for colloquial language used in an A/N in a previous chapter. I realize now that many people might find such terms, particularly when referring to one's parents, offensive. My sincerest apologies.

Phew! Done with that. As always, feel free to give plot ideas. And still paging all beta's, y'all!

Thank you very much for reading. Live long and prosper and all that jazz.

* * *

Disclaimer: The _Harry Potter_ series belongs to one J.K. Rowling. Cover image is "Wasteland" by atomhawk on DeviantArt. I make no profit from this.

* * *

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


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